I'm going to cook for my man. Not because he asked. Not because I owe him. But because love sometimes tastes like warm soup and soft rice and sitting at a tiny kitchen table with someone who makes you feel like home.
It started with a single, ordinary morning. The kind where birds sounded too cheerful and the sunlight filtered in like a lazy yawn.
Yuuki sat cross-legged on her dorm bed, staring at the ceiling.
Kaito's scent still lingered on her hoodie. That clean, cottony scent she'd learned to associate with him soft fabric, warm skin, and whatever shampoo he used that somehow always smelled like honesty.
The memory of last night fluttered behind her eyelids. The closeness. His arms around her. The way they held each other like the world had melted away.
It was new. Terrifying. Soft.
She'd wanted to be seductive. What she'd ended up doing was kissing him with a trembling heart and nearly crying into his shoulder when he whispered he felt safe with her.
It was… perfect.
But now, a quiet idea nestled into her heart: she wanted to do something else. Something that spoke not just of desire, but care. That said: *I see you. I choose you. Let me warm your heart in the most human way I know.
She wanted to cook for him.
Which was bold, considering she barely knew how to boil rice without threatening national security.
But love wasn't about perfection. It was about effort.
She grabbed her phone.
> Yuuki: Are you free later today?
> Kaito: After classes, yeah. Why?
> Yuuki:I want to feed you.
> Kaito: …Is this a metaphor?
> Yuuki:Nope. I'm cooking.
> Kaito:Should I be scared?
> Yuuki:Terrified. Be at the dorm kitchen by six.
> Kaito: Got it, chef.
She smiled to herself.
Okay, let's do this.
The dormitory kitchen wasn't fancy—an old silver sink with a tendency to leak when scowled at, scratched-up countertops, and a stove that made a low grumble like a bored dragon.
Still, she rolled up her sleeves like she was about to walk into battle.
"Alright," she muttered, pulling out the ingredients she'd secretly bought the night before. "Let's not set anything on fire."
Her menu was ambitious for someone who could barely make toast without a Google tutorial: spicy chicken stew, steamed rice, and stir-fried vegetables. It sounded simple enough. It was not.
But she was determined.
As she chopped onions (crying not from emotion, for once), she found herself thinking of Kaito's face. The way he looked at her when he didn't know she was watching—gentle, curious, like she was some puzzle he wasn't trying to solve, just… admire.
She thought about the way he fumbled when nervous. The quiet courage he'd shown when telling her how much she meant to him.
And her hands moved with a new rhythm.
This wasn't just cooking.
It was storytelling.
It was affection translated through cumin, ginger, and careful slices.
She burnt the garlic once.
Dropped a pepper twice.
At one point, she screamed when oil popped too close to her face and almost threw the entire pan across the kitchen.
But by 5:45 p.m., the kitchen was filled with the fragrance of something warm. Something honest.
Just as she was setting the table—two mismatched plates, plastic cups, and paper towels because the dorm didn't believe in napkins—Kaito walked in.
He stopped at the doorway, eyes wide.
"…Whoa."
Yuuki turned, flushed and nervous. "Hi."
"You cooked all this?" he asked, stepping in slowly, as if he didn't want to break the spell.
"I tried."
"It smells… amazing."
"Smells can lie."
He grinned. "I don't care. I'm impressed."
They sat at the little table. She scooped rice onto his plate, her hands awkward but careful. He watched her with something soft behind his glasses, a look that said: *This matters to me.*
When he took the first bite, she held her breath.
He chewed. Swallowed.
Then blinked.
"…Yuuki."
"Yeah?"
"This is… good. Like, *really* good."
She exhaled.
Relief crashed over her like a wave.
They ate slowly, savoring every bite. The rice was slightly overcooked, the chicken spicier than necessary, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the way they laughed, the way their knees touched under the table, the way Kaito reached across to wipe a smudge of sauce from the corner of her mouth without thinking.
She froze.
He froze.
Their eyes met.
And they laughed again, like kids who had no idea what they were doing but were doing it anyway.
After the plates were cleared and rinsed, they sat back down, lingering in the stillness.
Yuuki leaned her head against Kaito's shoulder.
"Thank you for trusting me," she said quietly.
"Thank *you* for making me feel like I matter."
"You do."
They sat like that for a while.
Outside the kitchen window, the university campus shifted into evening. Students walked by, voices rising and fading like background music. Somewhere down the hall, someone played soft jazz on a Bluetooth speaker.
Yuuki turned her face into Kaito's neck.
He smelled like comfort.
"I'm scared sometimes," she admitted. "Of messing this up. Of not being… enough."
He wrapped his arms around her.
"I'm scared too. But I think the trick is to keep showing up. To keep choosing each other. Even on the weird days. Even when we overcook the rice."
She laughed into his shirt.
"This is what love looks like, huh?" she asked.
"Not what I expected."
"But… better?"
He smiled. "Yeah. Better."
—
They stayed until the sky outside turned indigo. The kitchen emptied, the lights flickered softly, and Yuuki curled her fingers into Kaito's as if anchoring herself.
In that moment, there were no fireworks. No declarations.
Just two people.
Growing.
One burnt garlic clove at a time.
Love isn't always loud. Sometimes, it's two people standing in a dorm kitchen, arms covered in sauce, hearts wide open. Sometimes, it's over-salted stew and overfilled cups. Sometimes, it's cooking for someone not because you have to—but because you want to remind them: I care. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere.